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bitsandbobsofwriting · 2 years

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3 times Merlin saves a patient...

+1 time he can’t, despite his best efforts, and Arthur is there for him.

TW: Gore/sickness/injuries/general medical stuff. Death. Will be bits and pieces of tense-ness and fluff, there are post death descriptions but no one dies in writing.

The hunting party, consisting mostly of Nobles with the odd squire they’d brought along, ride into the courtyard much earlier than anyone had been expecting them, yelling for a physician and generally causing a ruckus.

They are met by servants and guards, rushing forward with no idea of the issue; the yelling seems desperate enough to warrant a full castle lock down, but the looks on the faces of those to the back of the group are nothing more than annoyed, inconvenienced, bored. Merlin is thankfully coming down the steps of the castle with his arms full of The King’s armour when they ride in; he drops all the metal plates at the bottom of the steps to stop them from rolling all over the place before rushing forward to a horse in the middle of the pack, having immediately spotted the problem.

Sir Elyan, who’d been on guard duty as punishment for... something of unimportance, absent-mindedly marvels at the servant’s quick feet and serious expression as he pulls a limp body down gently from where it had been slumped up the neck of Lord Dresden’s horse. It’s a squire by the looks of things, and the arrow poking out from his stomach is buried deep. Elyan, who’d been only a step behind Merlin, falls to his knees opposite the servant and asks, his voice rushed, but not panicked:

“Merlin, what do I do?”

Merlin doesn’t even look up as he grabs the knight’s hands, pulling them forward quickly, but then slowly, carefully, pressing them against the wound, around the arrow:

“Lots of pressure, but don’t move the arrow. Where’s your knife?”

Elyan gulps but nods, confident in both his and Merlin’s abilities:

“Back of my left hip.”

Merlin reaches behind Elyan carefully, pulling the knife from it’s holster on the knight’s belt and carefully cutting away the squire’s tunic. He’s not unconscious, not quite yet, but he’s pale and groaning, unable to move; whether it’s the pain, the shock, or the lack of blood, Elyan isn’t quite sure. Merlin gently moves one of Elyan’s hands to the side, and the knight goes with him easily, even when blood oozes worryingly fast down the boy’s already stained red torso. Merlin huffs worriedly and moves the hand back, muttering to the other man:

“I can’t do anything here. He might live, but I need him on a bed, I need equipment, sterilisation.-”

He looks up, meeting Elyan’s eyes for the first time since it had all begun, and he speaks with such authority that the knight finds himself trusting and following Merlin’s orders without hesitation:

“-Get him to my chambers, quickly. You carry, I’ll keep the pressure, warn me if I’m about to run into anything.”

Elyan quickly scoops the boy up, only allowing half a second for Merlin to stand in front of him, keeping pressure around the squire’s wound, before he begins a quick jog towards the castle. Merlin runs backwards, in a display of trust that Elyan both holds dear to his heart, and understands is just professional because a life is at stake. He glances over the servant... the physician’s shoulder:

“Castle steps... now.-”

Merlin immediately alters his steps so he’s going upwards, barely stumbling on the first step before he finds his rhythm, counting under his breath until he gets to the top. After a decade of working in the castle, Elyan figures that Merlin knows exactly how many steps are in every staircase in the building:

“-The door is being held open, turn the corner to my left... now.”

They make it to Merlin and Gaius’ shared chambers in no time. But no time, it appears, is still not quick enough. The squire, whose name Elyan feels guilty about not knowing despite his recognisable face, has fallen unconscious, dangling like a ragdoll from his arms before the knight places him gently on the cot Merlin had nodded at. Gaius is absent, but Elyan takes over from Merlin seamlessly, pushing his hands down around the arrow again as Merlin bustles around the room, quickly gathering cleaning cloths, needles, thread, sterilising alcohol, and several sorts of tinctures, before rushing back to the bedside. He dumps everything haphazardly on the table next to him before he runs to open curtains and light candles. Far quicker, Elyan thinks, but does not voice, far quicker than any normal man.

He comes back, nudging Elyan’s hands in a sign for him to move away before he pulls the arrow from the wound, and gets to work, drowning the injury in alcohol, checking to see what sort of internal damage there is, and sewing everything up, all whilst monitoring the boy’s breathing and pulse.

He lives in the end, of course, and Elyan learns that his name is Edmund, and he never allows himself to forget it. He insistently gives Merlin’s name to anyone who congratulates him on saving Edmund’s life, despite Merlin’s protests, and quietly wonders how no one had noticed the fact that Merlin does more physician-ing than Gaius, nowadays.

The very next time Merlin’s skills are required, within the public eye at least, it’s a little more personal to him and his closest friends.

It’s the end of the council meeting, thankfully, so there aren’t tens of people to crowd around and make a fuss and get in the way, only The King, a guard or two, Merlin, and a few straggling councilmen. Gaius had woken with a headache bad enough to complain about that morning, and considering the old Physician’s seeming inability to get sick at all, and his determination to not let it show on those rare occasions he does get sick, Merlin had immediately been worried. His request of Gaius to stay in bed and rest had, of course, been waved off with a scoff, but the young Warlock had become increasingly aware, in recent years, of Gaius’ advancing age, though it’s something he rarely allows himself to think about, and never allows himself to verbalise.

Arthur, as oblivious as he can be in certain situations, is smart enough to not question it when Merlin stands to attention behind the older man, rather than himself. During the meeting, Gaius contributes little, and only when prompted; the hand rubbing his temple and his deepening breaths have Merlin take a subtle step closer to the table, his worry going undisguised but thankfully largely unnoticed on his face. It’s when Gaius stands up, when the room is empty of everyone bar the previously mentioned few, that the older man collapses, legs going out under him like they’d never held any weight before and never would again.

Merlin is close, close enough to dart forward with a gasp and catch the physician before he hits the ground, with Percival not far behind him, and Arthur immediately calling for the remaining guards to run for a stretcher before kneeling beside where his servant had gently laid Gaius’ head on his lap:

“Merlin? What’s wrong with him?-”

Merlin just hums lowly, not replying and not looking up as he strokes Gaius’ hair back from his face, but Arthur’s brain is in an adrenaline fuelled hyper-focus, and he notices the clench in Merlin’s jaw and the darkness on his eyes:

“-Merlin, I said what’s-”

Merlin still doesn’t look up, but he does huff out a monotone reply as he rests his fingers softly against the side of Gaius’ neck:

“I don’t know, Arthur, give me a minute.-”

Percival had rather cleverly asked the room’s remaining people to vacate, so it’s up to him and Arthur to hold the door open when two guards walk in with a stretcher. Merlin is quick to continue when they place it down by his side, and the four men, without even a nod from The king, follow his instructions immediately:

“-Someone grab his ankles, carefully. One, two, three. Take him to our chambers, be quick but don’t jostle him. Arthur, hold open the doors, Banes, run ahead—clear one of the cots and get the fire going, quick as you can.”

The named guard is only a step ahead of Arthur as he runs to the door, throwing it open in The King’s face and not looking back to check if he’d caught it as he sprints down the corridor. Percival and the remaining guard pick the stretcher up carefully, and don’t bother thanking The King as he repeatedly rushes ahead of them to open doors.

The journey is slower than Merlin would’ve liked—it’s noon after all, a busy time in the castle—but Gaius doesn’t seem to be getting worse, so the young Warlock does his best to temper his panic, and his various companions follow his lead. When they finally reach the physician’s chambers, Banes is pacing up and down, keeping one eye on the fire, just getting going, and the other on the door; he quickly jumps out of the way when the entourage arrives, and is even quicker to shut the door behind them as Gaius is set down. Merlin immediately leans over him, pushing his own sleeves up and carefully beginning his examination.

Arthur hovers fretfully, as is his wont—no matter how much he’d deny it if confronted—but it isn’t long before Merlin huffs and looks up:

“Stop. Stop muttering, stop pacing, stop staring over my shoulder, stop breathing so loud. Just... go sit down.-”

Percival raises an eyebrow but otherwise remains still, as do the two guards, but Arthur bristles slightly and straightens his back, frowning down at his servant; he’s quickly interrupted before he can even say anything:

“-Arthur, Gaius is currently unconscious, and I don’t know why. I can not concentrate with you freaking out two feet from my face, so please, just... sit down.-”

Arthur instantly deflates and takes a few sulking steps back before collapsing onto the bench; if Percival weren’t so worried, he’d think it was funny, the way Merlin had The King wrapped around his little finger. Once more, however, Merlin is quick to continue, his voice stony and cold but his face pale and frightened:

“-On second thought,-”

Percival glances down to where Merlin’s hand hovers over an odd looking rash on Gaius’ collarbone, his eyes narrowing in confused worry:

“-go into my room and shut the door. Everyone, now, in my room.”

Arthur just stands up and scowls:

“Merlin come on, I sat down, we’re not disturbi-”

Merlin rushes over to the corner of the room, grabbing a clean cloth and dousing it in a mysterious clear liquid from a half empty vial. He covers his mouth with it and takes a deep breath as he jogs back over, holding the fabric over the lower half of his face as he interrupts:

“Now, Arthur, I’m being serious. We can’t fucking deal with an outbreak of this, so in my room, now.-”

He doesn’t wait for a reply as he heads to the door leading into the corridor, leaning his head out; Percival hears, as he shoos The King and two guards into the small room:

“Call for Sir Lancelot and everyone who was on the medical patrol last week, have them take the last of their dose and then gather everyone who was in the Council Room this morning and quarantine them. Tell Lance that Gaius has caught it somehow. I want the castle on lockdown, no one leaves their room.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply from the guards, either, re-entering the room and giving Percival one last grim look before the knight shuts the door in front of him.

After Merlin’s overheard demands, it hadn’t taken long for the group in the young physician’s bedroom to figure out that Gaius had brought back whatever it was he (and the armed guards he’d taken with him) had gone to a border village to treat the previous week.

It had been touch and go for a while, with two other councilmen and one guard having also caught the illness, but Merlin, the quick teacher that he is, has a full patrol of guards and knights brewing up and distributing the prevention potions within a few hours. The cure, however, is a little harder, and three weeks of treating four extremely sick, virtually unconscious, adults takes it’s toll on the young man.

They all live in the end, of course, and even The King is willing to give Merlin a little slack in the days that follow everyone’s recovery. He, as usual, is rather quick to forget Merlin’s heroics and medical know-how, but Percival, quiet and observant as he is, stores the memories in his head for the future, feeling distinctly safer in the servant’s hands when out and about.

It’s almost midnight, when they finally find the lost patrol.

Thankfully, the search party is large; they’d brought two other physicians with them, and every man and horse is carrying medical equipment, should the travellers’ horrified descriptions be accurate. And they are, oh, they really are.

The patrol lies scattered, knights and squires and horses, across a moonlit clearing in the woods, close enough to the Valley of Fallen Kings that Merlin isn’t really that surprised.

They’re dead, he thinks, all of them. And we don’t even know what happened, we just know that they didn’t come home.

Arthur calls for everyone to spread out and search for survivors; they can figure out how this happened later, but for now, if even one soul can be saved... they need to check. One by one the bodies are covered, either with their own cloaks or with the blankets and sheets everyone had packed in their bedrolls. No one will mind sleeping cold tonight. Not that they’ll sleep that much anyway, these people, these corpses... they’re friends, colleagues, drinking buddies. Leon spies the man who trained him, the oldest in the clearing and the most respected, even amongst The King and his closest, and with a painful gulp he swaps positions with Gwaine, who had been stood over the body of a young squire whose studies he’d been helping with.

Merlin is covering his sixth corpse when someone—Mordred, his mind supplies him in the aftermath—yells from just behind him:

“I’ve got a pulse! And breathing!”

Another physician had knelt at a knight’s side a quarter candle-mark ago; he’d had a pulse at the time, but he looked like he’d been given an hour left to live three days ago, and he was gone before the others could even turn around to help. Merlin drops the sheet he’s holding with no thought but a brief, mental apology to the remains he’d abandoned, rushing to Mordred’s side. He’s the first physician there, and though the others approach, in case he needs any help, they hang back, so as not to be in the way.

Arthur, and a few of the knights, had begun a quick paced journey back to Camelot soon after the check had started. The King had been reluctant, but Sir Leon had insisted that the council needed to be told, and the citizens needed to be warned, and Arthur had, rather huffily, agreed with him. Leon, not unused to finding himself in charge in The King’s absence, orders everyone else to keep looking; they can’t afford to abandon other potential survivors by placing all their hope and concentration on one, one who may not even make it.

The first thing Merlin notes is how young he is, barely even Mordred’s age, and he flinches at the thought before pushing it from his mind; hopefully his youth and fitness will help save him. He works diligently, the other physicians loitering close by but leaving him to it as Mordred supplies a spare set of hands, and Leon glances infrequently over his shoulder. His fingers ache from all the tense, precise, tiny movements, and his knees, from where they’re pressing into roots and stones, and his back, from where he’s hunched over, and the space in his skull just behind his eye sockets, from where he’s been squinting, but after an hour, two, three, of steadying the sluggish flow of blood, monitoring the boy’s pulse, breathing, temperature, Merlin finally sighs and leans back.

Leon rushes over immediately from where he’d been instructing half the patrol to head to Camelot and come back as soon as they can with carts for the dead, and the other half to find a clearing somewhere upwind where they can set camp up. His face has fallen before he even gets there, the older knight clearly expecting the worst, but Mordred looks up with a tired smile as he collapses back onto his rear, his knees undoubtedly hurting just as much as Merlin’s. Said young servant also looks up, wiping a sleeve across his exhausted, sweaty brow:

“Infection is still a possibility, but if we can keep him warm and clean, and get him back to Camelot before dusk tomorrow, he should pull through. He’s young, strong. I’ve seen people die from less but... I’ve also seen people survive from worse.”

Leon seems to sag a little with the relief, and as he marvels at Merlin’s medical skills and stamina and confidence, Merlin in turn marvels at Leon’s ability to keep things running smoothly whilst holding back panic in his own mind:

“Well done, Merlin, and thank you. Explain his injuries to Maura and Ban, they’ve already offered to take over his watch for the night so you can get some rest.”

Merlin nods as he stretches his arms absent-mindedly, and Leon tries his best to hide the roll of his eyes, knowing that his lack of answer means he’s going to be staying up by his patient’s side for as long as it takes for him to pull through. Or die.

He doesn’t die.

He begins drifting in and out of consciousness soon after they bring him back to Camelot and settle him in Gaius’ chambers, and though Arthur still demands Merlin’s attention every second of the day, the servant takes every opportunity he can to rush back to the boy’s bedside to help change bandages and administer medicine.

In the end, Gaius, and the other two physicians who’d been there, are more than happy to step aside and allow their much younger counterpart to take the credit for the knight’s recovery, though he rarely does. Merlin is perfectly happy that the kingdom knows he was saved, it doesn’t really matter to him how, or by who.

Leon stops considering Merlin their servant friend, and starts considering him their physician friend.

Merlin had been pulled away by an almost hysterical sounding servant early the previous evening.

Though Arthur can be quietly (though obviously) possessive of his manservant, and a little vindictive to those who pull Merlin’s attention away from him, he is a King and a good man before he is those things, so when the hushed words between the two other men had sparked Merlin into a panic driven sprint from the room, without even a glance back, Arthur lets it go. He can allow Merlin his personal life, especially when it obviously means so much to him, especially when he is so obviously needed someplace.

The resigned allowance, however, quickly turns to annoyance hidden worry when he never reappears later in the evening, and sends another servant in his stead the next morning. Arthur continues to allow it though, for another few hours at least, until almost eighteen candle marks have passed since his initial hurried exit. The King’s worry mixes in an almost unstable manner with his possessiveness, and an hour or so before noon, he strips himself of the morning’s training armour, replacing it with a casual ensemble that always ruins the councilmens’ moods, and ambles purposefully down to the physician’s chambers.

He smirks to himself when he hears, from around the corner, Merlin’s unmistakable gait exiting his Uncle’s rooms and shutting the door behind him. Something, the drag of his feet along the stone, a muted sigh, something, stops Arthur from walking around into the next corridor, and a moment later, he overhears a guard speak:

“She didn’t make it?”

Arthur frowns, not only at the words themselves, but at the overwhelming lack of hope in the man’s voice; it seems to be more of a statement than a question. He presses himself to the wall as Merlin replies:

“I lost her.”

His voice cracks and crumbles, but he clears his throat at the end of it, as Arthur’s own throat tightens at his sudden realisation; Merlin had been pulled away to treat someone. Someone who still hadn’t survived after over half a day’s worth of help. There’s another sigh, louder this time, pitying but in a soft, comforting sort of way:

“Do you want me to head off? I can... check the perimeter, give you ten minutes.”

Arthur can picture perfectly the way Merlin will shake his head, and he can hear it in his mind, almost before Merlin says it, the denial:

“No, it’s fine. Gaius is in there and I can’t leave him. I just... just needed to get out of the room for a moment.”

His voice is quiet and broken in a way that Arthur has only heard once or twice before, in all the years he’s known him, and The King resolves himself to never being the cause of it. The guard, thankfully, is thinking along the same lines, and continues his sympathetic attempts to cheer Merlin up:

“It’s not your fault, Merls, some people... they just can’t be saved. I’m sure you did everything you could.”

Merlin scoffs slightly, and Arthur figures the sound of fabric scraping against stone is him sliding down the wall to sit on the floor:

“Yeah, well it obviously wasn’t enough.”

Another sigh:

“They say you can’t be a good physician if you take every loss personally, they say you’d fall apart at the seams, but I’ve been stationed here, on and off, for ten years. I’ve seen you lose patients, Merlin, and I’ve never seen you not grieve them like you would your own family. I’ve seen that make you a better physician, and I’ve seen it make you a better man. Grieve, learn, move on, save the next one.”

The next stretch of silence is the longest yet, and Arthur waits for baited breath, to see if Merlin has allowed himself to be comforted by what The King must admit are very comforting words:

“I’d rather not lose any of them, if I’m being honest.”

Of course not. Merlin has always been far too selfless and, though he tries to hide it, self-deprecating, for his own good:

“Yeah, well, we’d all rather that, wouldn’t we? But sometimes shit happens, and you’ve just got to just... deal. You’re doing great, Merlin, especially since, and don’t tell anyone I said this, how much of a hardass The King can be to you sometimes.-”

There’s a low snort of amusement, and though it’s at his expense, Arthur manages to be pleased by it:

“-You carry a hefty weight, Merlin, in ways I don’t think anyone in this Godforsaken castle really understands, but you somehow manage to handle it relatively gracefully.-”

There’s a hum, one that Arthur can’t quite figure out is a dismissal or an agreement, and then another, smaller, snort of laughter:

“-I’ll take a walk anyway, give you ten minutes.”

Arthur panics for a moment, glancing around desperately for some sort of corner to turn or cupboard to hide in, but he quickly calms as the guard’s footsteps head in the opposite direction. He lets out a breath, deciding to turn around and head back to his chambers as he hears Merlin slowly stand from the floor, but quickly freezes when the servant yells, his voice loud and pain-filled:

“FUCK!”

Arthur flinches at the noise, but flinches even further when a crash rings out, echoing down the corridor as an empty bucket comes flying down the corridor. It smashes into the wall in front of him, almost-but-not-quite splintering before falling to the floor and rolling towards him, out of Merlin’s sight. Arthur bends over slowly, picking it up in hesitant hands as he hears Merlin take in a shaky breath. He can’t. He can’t just... leave, not like this. He takes his own deep breath, to steel his nerves, and walks slowly around the corner.

Merlin is crouched down, elbows on his knees with one hand dangling toward the floor, and one hand covering his eyes. He’s breathing deeply, slowly, obviously trying to stop the tears; Arthur figures he must not lose patients often, because he’s never seen him react like this. He must have stepped too loud, or breathed too hitchingly, or stared too hard, because Merlin’s head whips up to look at him; The King’s step falters at the shock turned scathing in his servant’s eyes:

“Not now, Arthur. If you’re really that desperate, go bother George, I’m sure he’s hovering somewhere.”

Arthur looks away briefly as his ears turn slightly red, but is quick to answer:

“I actually don’t want anything, I just wanted to... come... say hi.”

Merlin doesn’t move in any way that isn’t raising an eyebrow, in a scary impression of Gaius, and Arthur huffs and waves the broken bucket in the other man’s vague direction:

“Fine. I was getting hungry for lunch, and was wondering where you’d rushed off to yesterday, but then I heard you and the guard, and then... this,-”

He waves the bucket again before a brief expression of confusion crosses his face, and he slowly places it on the floor, by the wall:

“-so I... just wanted to check on you. And let you know you can have today and... and however long you need off. If you want it.-”

At Merlin’s small, but endearingly exasperated smile, Arthur steps towards him and sits down on the floor, his back leaning against the cold stone. As he continues, Merlin collapses back onto the floor as well, so he’s sat properly, groaning as he turns his ankles until they click. He sits cross-legged, his and Arthur’s knees pressed together:

“-I guess I forget that you’re an actual physician sometimes. Like a proper one.”

Merlin’s smile turns as fond as Arthur’s voice is meek, but neither of them call the other out on it, content to stare at each other with a softness they’ve never quite managed before. Merlin still looks weary, tense, ready for an argument or insult at any moment, and Arthur seems unsure and nervous, but still, they continue smiling gently. The moment doesn’t last long however, and Merlin flinches and look away, tears gathering in his eyes again, as a newborn’s shriek echoes from the room behind them.

Arthur stiffens as his blood runs cold, and where Merlin’s breath deepens to stave off the tears, Arthur’s deepens to stave of a panic:

“Is... is that...? Was she...?”

He can’t finish his questions, but he doesn’t have to, and Merlin answers in a mumble without looking up from his lap:

“Her husband died a few months ago and I... I promised she’d be ok. I’ve known her for years, she... she was my friend, and I promised her she’d be ok, that I’d look after her. Now she’s dead, and there’s a baby girl in the next room with no where to go.”

Arthur goes even impossibly paler, but he reckons, in his recently growing emotional maturity, that perhaps his own baggage shouldn’t be what takes precedence here. He takes a deep breath, to calm the adrenaline fuelled anxiety in his chest, and then reaches out to take Merlin’s hand, only allowing their skin to meet once he’s sure his own hand has stopped shaking:

“Are... are there no relatives? Siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles?”

Merlin just shakes his head and looks up, accepting Arthur’s hand easily and holding it tight:

“No. A couple of the maids are a few weeks post partum so I’m hopeful they’ll be able to help with feeding for a while. Gaius and I can keep her for the first few weeks, but if no one in the servants’ quarters wants to adopt her... she’ll have to go the orphanage downtown.-”

He looks away again, his voice quiet:

“-She likely won’t survive that, the newborns rarely do.”

Arthur replies quickly, huffily, though his anger obviously isn’t aimed at Merlin, and The King’s words actually bring a brief smile to his face:

“Bloody coun- I try. I try to fund that place, but all the stupid council want is a fancy new Ballroom and a pay rise.”

Merlin’s words, quiet, whispered, are the last said in a long while:

“I know, Arthur. I know.”

He has to go back in eventually, when they hear the guard’s footsteps down the hall, returning from his spontaneous patrol. Arthur is the first to get up, pulling Merlin with him by their still joined hands before letting go and brushing invisible lint off his servant’s shoulders. He runs his hands through Merlin’s hair as the younger man stands with a small grin on his face and an eyebrow raised. He spies the guard coming around the corner and double-glancing before stepping back out of sight again, but doesn’t draw attention to him as Arthur freezes, blushing with the realisation of what he’d been doing before clearing his throat and moving back.

Merlin just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, laughing slightly before tucking his hands into his pockets and stepping back himself:

“Thank you, I... you didn’t have to stay.”

Arthur’s blush practically melts away as he rolls his own eyes:

“Of course I did, idiot. I meant it earlier, just... take your time, and I’ll see you whenever.-”

He pats Merlin on the shoulder; it’s softer than normal, and his hand lingers just a moment longer than perhaps acceptable between a King and his Servant, but there’s no one there to see, as far as Arthur is concerned at least, and after an extra second or two he clears his throat again and heads back the way he’d come from. He turns at the last second, pointing at Merlin with a grin:

“-Don’t take the piss though.”

He’s gone, disappeared around the corner before Merlin can scoff out a laugh and reply, but similarly, Merlin disappears into the physician’s chambers, the door locked behind him, before the guard can turn into the corridor again. That, is a teasing conversation that he’s ill-prepared for and still desperately running away from.

Marion, Merlin names her, in the end. Marion, after her mother. It’s a name that normally suits soft younger women, with golden smiles for their equally-as-sweet suitor, and flowers growing between cracks and children on the street and the sun and rain alike. It is also suited, he thinks, to elderly matrons; women with grandchildren and great-grandchildren even. Women who have so many stories, with many of them spilling over with tragedy and warning and loss, and yet still have a lesson to teach alongside each and every one of them, and a grace in her words that always means the ending of the fable never seems as heart-wrenching as perhaps it should do.

When he goes back into that dark, bloody room, his friend under a sheet, her husband—also Merlin’s friend—six feet under six miles away, Gaius hands him a clean, wriggling bundle. The baby has been gently wiped down and wrapped in soft, white cotton; he, with a sigh and a surge of anger that he knows he can’t let fester—he insists that Arthur isn’t at fault for his mother’s death, he will not force his grief upon an orphaned child—he pulls the corner of the sheet down, uncovering the baby’s face.

He very quickly sits down.

This, this moment here, is when Merlin decides that the baby’s name was never anything other than Marion. She’d been Marion before he’d even looked at her, he thinks.

Gaius spares him a mournful glance, but he doesn’t worry, not really, Merlin has lost before and moved on, and he’s delivered enough babies to know what he’s doing.

She has wisps of bright yellow hair, thicker than on most newborns, and Merlin can tell that, just like her mother, she’ll have waist length curls, golden in the summer and a more muted blonde in the winter, by the time she hits her tenth year. And she will, she will make it. Merlin doesn’t care what he has to do. Marion will make it, and even further: she’ll soar. He finishes that thought, and continues gazing down at her, at the button nose that all babies have but he knows will grow to be strong and straight like her father’s. He sees her cupid’s bow, a shared gift from both her parents, her only-just-discernible widow’s peak, something he knows Marion’s mother had had, and her green eyes, a rarity that her father had been bestowed with from his own parents.

Merlin decides, as he looks down at this child who is a perfect mix of puzzle pieces from the past, whose future he can see stretched out in front of him, alongside Arthur’s, Camelot’s, his own, like an endless carpeted corridor, that Marion is also a fine name for golden-haired, button-nosed, green-eyed baby.

He hadn’t been willing to leave Gaius in the room alone for more than a few minutes, not after the death of a patient, of a friend, but Merlin is selfishly willing to rock little Marion to sleep for perhaps longer than is really necessary, as Gaius silently tidies and cleans around him.

He returns to work the day after next, unsurprisingly. Arthur had expected Merlin to push down all his emotions and come back to his duties as soon as possible, like he normally does, what he hadn’t expected, however, is Merlin to push his chamber door open so very slowly and to shut it so carefully. Though it’s the reason, he supposes, that is surprising, not the action in itself. Because Merlin appears to have a tiny baby strapped to his chest.

Arthur doesn’t move from his place at the table, breakfast in front of him—brought by George—as Merlin no more than frowns at the mess in the room (George had been allowed to serve, not hover), when normally such a catastrophe would have him cursing Arthur out for hours. The King figures at last, when Merlin glances down to the still babe wrapped in fabric, that he must not want to wake it (it?) up.

Arthur makes sure to speak quietly when he finally persuades himself to speak:

“How’s it doing?”

Merlin shoots him a short, displeased frown before immediately heading to the bed, making it up absentmindedly as he responds:

“She is doing just fine. The maids I spoke about were more than willing to help out, so she’s eating enough. Speaking of, I’ll have to disappear every once in a while so they can feed her.”

Arthur nods, pleased, and asks his next questions, a lilt of confusion lacing itself through his second query:

“What’s her name? And can’t you just leave her with the maids during the day, surely that would be easier?”

Merlin freezes for barely a moment before carrying on, as if Arthur wouldn’t notice the fact that something he said struck him emotionally, somehow:

“Marion, after her mother.”

His voice is quieter than even before, just above a whisper now. Arthur doesn’t chase an answer for his second question, allowing Merlin his privacy as he himself thinks: “Merlin will never let this child go. Will he?”

A few hours later, after Marion and Merlin have returned from a small food break, Merlin grumbles under his breath about his back hurting, and Arthur, without considering Merlin’s general deviousness, asks Merlin a very silly question:

“Why don’t you put her down for a bit? The bed is big enough, I’m sure you can... make a nest or something, so she doesn’t fall off. Probably.”

Merlin looks up to The King with a sly grin, and Arthur frowns, taking an automatic step back even though he’s not even close to guessing what’s on his servant’s mind. Said servant supports Marion’s weight with one hand, slowly walking towards Arthur as he unwinds the wide strips of cloth holding her to his chest. Arthur gulps and shakes his head:

“No. Absolutely not. Merlin no, I... I really can’t, Merlin, I don’t want to hurt.... Merlin!”

Merlin had made the final part of the approach quickly, and Arthur, so scared of dropping little Marion, holds his arms out ready as she’s passed to him, despite his loud pleading. His arms wrap around her stiffly, and he takes a deep breath in when Merlin steps back, crossing his arms and staring at him in appraisal. Arthur doesn’t look down, but instead stares at his servant with a panicked expression as the other man raises an eyebrow and smirks:

“You should probably keep breathing. You know, if you don’t want to pass out and drop her.”

Arthur’s never let a breath out so fast before in his life. Merlin rolls his eyes fondly and steps forward again, gently touching his fingers to the back of Arthur’s hand; his voice is quiet but confident and Arthur follows his instructions perfectly as Marion wriggles:

“Move this hand up, just a bit, and relax your fingers or she’ll just roll out of your arms.-”

Arthur still hasn’t looked down, and Merlin laughs gently at the way he clenches his jaw when Marion babbles to herself, just for a moment:

“-And would you please look at her? You won’t turn to stone, Arthur.”

Arthur glares at him briefly before slowly looking down. He, like Merlin had those couple of days prior, loses all emotion except a sense of wonder:

“She... uh... bright eyes.”

Though he would usually tease Arthur for his lack of eloquence, Merlin’s smile just grows softer as he too looks down at her:

“Yeah, her father’s. The nose too. Hair is her mother’s though.”

The more they talk, baby Marion gently joining in with her quiet babbling, the more Arthur relaxes into the hold, and when he glances up to see Merlin gazing down at her with an adoring smile and eyes brighter than he’s seen on his friend in what seems like years, his own smile grows even further. It drops however, when the other man frowns and steps back suddenly, his jaw clenching tightly before he speaks, unable to look away from her, seemingly unhappy about that. When Arthur mutters his name, a questioning lilt to his quiet tone once more, a few moments pass before Merlin responds:

“None of the servants can take her, Gaius is going to the orphanage this afternoon to speak to them about taking her on in a couple of weeks.”

Arthur sighs and looks down again, and neither of them move as he mulls over his words. he glances between them, sees the attachment in Merlin’s eyes, sees the way his hands twitch even when he’s trying to pretend he trusts Arthur not to drop her, sees the way Marion’s wide-eyed gaze lingers on Merlin a little longer than it lingers on anything else, as far-fetched as that seems:

“Hmm. She looks like her parents, they’ll always be her parents, and I hope that, wherever they are, they can watch over her, but... she’s yours, I think. Little Marion is very much yours. I’ll give you the time, Merlin, the space, the pay, if you... if you want me to. You don’t even have to ask, I’ll do it anyway.”

Merlin gulps, but doesn’t look to The King as he takes a deep breath. It only takes him a moment to make up his mind, and Arthur smiles as the young physician steps back forward and lifts a calloused finger for Marion’s waving hand to grab a hold of:

“I’ll... speak to Gaius when he gets back, though I think he probably already knows.”

His tone is dry, and Arthur huffs out a gentle laugh:

“I’ll come with you.”

Merlin looks up, wide-eyed and almost panicked as he rushes out a response, not quite forgetting to keep his voice down:

“No, you don’t need... I don’t...-”

He pauses, takes a breath, and thinks, eyes naturally falling back down to Marion. Merlin’s voice is quiet, hopeful, easy, when he continues:

“-Yes, I... ok. Thank you.”

THE END!!!

The wee babby Marion is the most cared for child in the whole damn Kingdom, and it’s all very soft and cute. Her first word was “Dad”, and because no one was looking at her when she said it, Merlin and Arthur have recurring arguments over who she was talking to literally their entire lives.

Let me know your thoughts, gang!!

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